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In this time of long nights and short days the only events on offer are the ideas that form in my head as I look out two different windows.   

The day before this day I welcomed the sunrise so far into South-Eastern skies. It is hard to imagine that soon it will be coming up through the second window, that I looked through the next morning, at the same time.

Those great pines were saplings when my grandparents were young, so very far away. They remind me of them everyday. Strong, dignified, beautiful, with signs of frailty. Nothing lives forever.


And then the rowan tree. All covered in snow. Dormant. The tree from which Norse folklore says woman was born. The tree the druids called the tree of life.  It is bearing its lot as if that’s all there is.  I fear for it. I hope to see again its brilliant red berries that entice the pileated woodpecker to come and visit. I hope to see its branches full of life again in the summer glow of sunrise.


I can’t help myself. Nature is in my blood. And yet when the coyotes sing I’m happy to be indoors.



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